


Unpredictable

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-15
Updated: 2010-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the morning after the events of A Study in Pink, Sherlock wakes up with a strange bedfellow and finds that his brain is not working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He wakes up knowing there is someone in the bed with him. He knows it's nearly dawn, and that he is at home in 221b Baker Street. But his brain - uncharacteristically - appears to be refusing to work. Will not tell him who it is in bed with him or how they got there. Of course he could just turn round and look, see who it is that's taking up space, who's stopping him from splaying his long limbs across the bed as usual. But for some reason he can't fathom, he doesn't want to do that.

The scent of this other person is not yet familiar to him and yet it's not completely strange either - he just doesn't expect it _here_. In his bedroom. In his bed. He associates it somehow with a conversation he can't quite pin down, not long ago. In a taxi. A different journey from the one he remembers more clearly, the one last night that took him so close to death. That thing he'd been half-wanting for so long: release from the sheer boredom of being alive and alone in a world of fools who see nothing, no, who _understand_ nothing.

 _Not bored now, are you?_ The murderer's question, just last night; he remembers _that_ all right. He wasn't bored then and he is not bored now. But he doesn't understand why his brain is not working properly. This never happens.

It's not a hangover - he knows, though not recently, what those are like. It's not the coming down after a high - or not a chemical one, anyway. He's thirsty, but that may be from eating Dim Sum late at night.

Dim Sum. His mind jolts as he looks at the shape he can just discern on the bedside table, a broken fortune cookie with a scrap of paper still inside it. He can't remember what it says; just an echo of conversation last night, something that feels like part of a sequence. His own voice, and another one.

 _\- I can always predict the fortune cookies._

 _\- No you can't._

 _\- Almost can._

The new voice in his head, contradicting him: wearily amused and a bit exasperated and utterly matter-of-fact. It's the voice of the other person in the bed, he knows that now. The man he met for the first time the day before yesterday. The man who shot the murderer. Who saved _his_ life. The man who seems to ask rather a lot of personal questions, given how indignant he gets when people think he and Sherlock are an item. His new flatmate. John Watson.

What he'd told John last night was true: he's married to his work. He doesn't go to bed with anyone, hasn't for years, though he and Lestrade have come close a few times after the end of some particularly taxing case. What's the point of wasting all those brain cells on sex? Sherlock may not know the workings of the solar system but he knows about Renaissance physiology and the science of humours, that theory that each orgasm brings you closer to death, drains your blood and your vital forces. Drains your creativity too: _there goes another sonnet_ , as some poet or other apparently used to say.

So sex is a distraction he avoids, not least because he hasn't found a way to do it without consequences, a way that doesn't involve _people_ , somehow, even if only in his mind. And there just isn't room for people in his mind. Their breath fogs the glass so he can't see properly any more.

He doesn't know why he thinks of breath, and then he does: the breath that's stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. The physical presence of John Watson, giving off more heat than a radiator, the man must be running a fever or - His mind snags again on a memory from last night, no, this morning, the small hours of this morning, after they'd come back still laughing from the restaurant and gone to their separate beds. Hearing the sounds of someone, not someone, _this_ someone, John Watson, caught in a nightmare, Sherlock doesn't know what about. Doesn't know either why he went into John's room, shook him more or less awake, offered to share his own bed for the rest of the night. In the cold light of dawn this makes no sense at all.

But then much of what he's doing at the moment makes no sense, and making sense doesn't seem to be enough of a reason to do things any more. Something instinctual, animal almost, is reaching out from him to this damaged man with his unforgivable taste in clothes and his psychosomatic limp and his daft sense of humour.

It's taken a long time - measured against the speed his brain usually goes, it feels like years - but he finally understands why he's lying so still. He doesn't want to move because he doesn't want John to wake up and turn away, embarrassed, get out of bed as quickly as possible, as he knows John must. As he knows _he_ would do, in the circumstances, except ... Except he _hasn't_ done that. It's very perplexing and irrational, but he recognizes that he doesn't want this to stop. He wants to stay here with John's body next to his, the heat of him and the unfamiliar-becoming-familiar scent of him, and his breathing, the breathing of a man deep in sleep, not in nightmare now, Sherlock's doing, such a simple thing to take pleasure in, but he does.

John shifts a little, stirs, and Sherlock thinks this is it, he's going to turn away now - but instead something wholly unexpected happens. John's arm, heavy with sleep, flung over him. The shock of it would make him motionless if he weren't already trying so hard not to move.

John's arm is lying across him, and John's hand. Is lying. Almost. Now he can't even form a sentence. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He knows, and he doesn't want to know. Knows enough about therapy, in theory at least, to understand denial as the thing that's been blocking his memory, short-circuiting his brain. Knows, too, that you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to detect what's happening to his body, the way the blood rushes to that part of him so close to John's hand now.

He might like to think of himself as asexual or as married to his work, but his cock seems to have other ideas. John's hand, so close yet not quite close enough, almost touching him, and the ache of that _almost_ is unbearable and he wants to move and he daren't because then it will all stop and he doesn't want it to stop.

In spite of himself, and in spite of his fear of waking John, Sherlock can't help letting out a little sound of frustration; barely a murmur. But he hears the change in John's breathing. Feels the arm lying across his body grow tense. Knows the man in bed with him is awake now.

Even in the last few minutes, the light in the room has grown stronger; it's already morning. For the first time in his life, he realizes, he has nowhere to hide and no idea what will happen next.


	2. Chapter 2

John sits on the edge of the bed looking at his suitcase. It's half-full, the first half of his packing done in a fury after that row downstairs just now. But he seems to have run out of steam, and now he's not sure what to do: keep packing or unpack his stuff and put it away again.

Bits of the row are still echoing in his head:

 _If my behaviour is so abhorrent to your pitifully conventional mind, may I suggest you fuck off back to your girlfriend?_ Bit of a weird sentence, even coming from Sherlock.

Girlfriend. Is that what Sarah is? He likes her, quite fancies her, but girlfriend, no, not exactly.

 _Girlfriend, no. Not really my area._ Sherlock's words the other night, when they were in Angelo's. John winces again at the memory of that conversation and his own ineptitude.

 _So, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way._ Of all the stupid things to say.

Sherlock, sounding faintly amused: _I know it's fine_. Making John feel clumsy and naive and – well, never mind. And oh, God, _then_ Sherlock thinking John was trying to get off with him.

He still couldn't work out how to read Sherlock's tone, except that it seemed, well, _careful_ is probably the best word he can come up with right now:

 _John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest-_

John gets up abruptly and stuffs three more shirts into the suitcase. Doesn't even bother to fold them. He sits down on the bed again. Looks at the suitcase.

What did Sherlock mean when he said _I'm not looking for anything_? John was so busy protesting _No - no – I'm not – I wasn't_ , that he hadn't really heard the end of what Sherlock was saying.

He thinks about the fact that everyone seems to assume Sherlock is gay, and quite a lot of people seem to think he and Sherlock are together. Mrs Hudson. Angelo. And he's had some very funny looks from Lestrade, come to think of it.

 _Lestrade_. John realizes he's clenching his fists, which is a bit surprising. Unnecessary, too. He unclenches them again. Of course it was embarrassing, walking in on that, and he was quite within his rights to be furious with Sherlock for not at least shutting the bloody door. Sherlock is _impossible_. As well as amazing.

But surely whatever Sherlock wants to get up to with Lestrade is none of John's business. Or would be none of John's business if he hadn't just walked in on it. Oh bloody hell.

Probably didn't have to call Sherlock a _stupid fucking egomaniacal exhibitionist_ though. That was a bit rude.

He can still feel the stinging contempt in Sherlock's voice: _That is a ridiculous suggestion and utterly beneath you_.

But that wasn't about calling Sherlock an exhibitionist. That was because of the other thing.

John takes the shirts out of the suitcase again. He should at least fold them, right? No point in having to iron them again when he gets to wherever he's going.

If he is going anywhere, that is.

The other thing.

Because of Sherlock shouting _How was I supposed to know you were coming back? You're out all the time these days!_

 _These days_ is going it a bit, John thinks, given they've only been living together – _sharing the flat_ , he corrects himself – for a week.

Which conjures up Mycroft's annoying voice:

 _You met him yesterday, today you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. May we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? ... You're very loyal very quickly_

and his own voice saying _No. No, I'm not._

He is, though, come to think of it.

He seems to be thinking about everything _except_ that thing he said, the one that Sherlock said was _a ridiculous suggestion and_ \- yes, yes, all right, you don't actually have to go through the whole thing again, do you?

The thing he doesn't want to think about. Doesn't even know why he said it really:

 _Are you being like this because of what happened the other night?_

Whatever it _was_ that happened the other night. He's still not absolutely sure if anything did.

 _The other night_ isn't quite right either, is it? Because really, it was the morning after when -

Why is it so difficult to think about this?

He supposes some people would have found the other night, _really_ the other night, pretty traumatic. And God knows he was shit-scared at the time. Running along corridors, his heart pounding, desperate he wouldn't get there in time. And then seeing it, what was about to happen over there in _the wrong fucking building_. But then, thank God, the shot was right on target. And after that he was fine.

Tried bluffing it a bit with Sherlock, but he should have known that wasn't going to work:

 _Good shot._

 _Yes. Yes, it must have been._

 _Well, you'd know._

Sherlock looking down at him, serious and intent and something else John couldn't read:

 _Are you all right?_

He's not so sure he is now.

The morning after. Waking up in a strange bed. Not the strange bed he'd slept in the night before _the other night_ , the bed he's sitting on now with his bloody suitcase half-packed and no idea what to do.

Sherlock's bed. With Sherlock in it.

All a bit embarrassing really. Especially waking up so close to Sherlock, practically hugging him. Must have been thrashing around in his sleep again. He's pretty sure the only reason he was in Sherlock's bed – though it's all a bit hazy – was that Sherlock had woken him out of yet another nightmare and said he could come in with him. Which was nice of him. Though maybe not ridiculously nice, given that John had just saved his life. But still.

Waking up so close to Sherlock.

He doesn't know why thinking of that should make him _unhappy_. But it does.

He doesn't really go in for casual sex, so he's not used to waking up with someone he hardly knows. Male _or_ female.

Male's a bit of a first though.

So close to Sherlock he was almost -

For a moment there he'd been worried Sherlock would think he was making a pass at him.

Having an erection first thing in the morning doesn't necessarily mean _that_. There are simple physiological causes for these things.

But Sherlock did have one, didn't he?

He doesn't _think_ he was imagining it.

He'd thought at first Sherlock was still asleep. He wasn't, though.

It's a bit difficult to know what to say in those circumstances. He'd muttered some kind of clumsy apology for _invading Sherlock's personal space_ , for God's sake, and then asked if Sherlock wanted a cup of tea. Pathetic.

Not that he'd come up with anything better if he got another chance.

He's not sure why he thinks of it like that.

It might have been quite nice just to lie there for a bit if Sherlock _had_ been asleep. It's a long time since he's shared a bed with anyone, and he misses the warmth of it, not just the heat of another body but the warmth inside when it's someone you're close to, someone you know well, someone you're used to -

Yes, he misses that. His throat is tight with how much he misses that.

Not sure what this all has to do with Sherlock, though. Or why he wishes Sherlock had been asleep so he could have -

What is the point of thinking like this when Sherlock is downstairs doing whatever he's doing with Lestrade? Which is, after all, none of John's business.

Some people think a row clears the air, but he's never seen it that way.

It was a pretty weird row to be having with your flatmate. Bits of it, anyway.

There really is no point in slamming out of the house with a half-packed suitcase and nowhere to go.

Might as well go downstairs and make himself a cup of tea while he's thinking what to do next.

He wonders if Lestrade has gone yet and what Sherlock's doing if he has.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock wakes up knowing there is no-one else in the room with him. There's a crick in his neck that tells him, even before he opens his eyes, that he's been asleep on the sofa. The position of the patch of sunlight on the wall indicates that it's just gone 6, this time of year.

He can't have been asleep for long – Lestrade left in a hurry soon after half-past five, rushing to get to an appointment he said he'd forgotten. ("No it's _not_ a case, Sherlock. Not even a boring one. Give it a rest!")

Apart from the stiff neck, Sherlock's physical sensations are generally rather pleasant, though he doesn't feel particularly inclined to do anything energetic. He stretches luxuriously, knocking his hand against the arm of the sofa in the process. Another bruise to add to the afternoon's tally. The sofa is probably not the best place for these activities. Perfectly adequate though. Not that he's intending to make a habit of this sort of thing. Slows you down too much. Even his blood feels as if it's moving at a different pace.

Still, Sherlock is quite pleased with himself, and not altogether displeased with Lestrade. The man is still frustratingly stupid, of course, but he clearly has skills and expertise which open up interesting avenues for further exploration. Sherlock is not ready to abandon his significant reservations about sex and its effects, but he can see that some further investigation is justified, and might even be useful. And certainly he is feeling a lot better now than he did earlier.

What was it Lestrade had said afterwards? _Nothing like a good fuck after a massive row._ Coarsely put, but accurate all the same. Typical Lestrade.

He realizes he's thirsty. A cup of tea would be a good thing at this point.

"Mrs Hudson!"

No answer. Must still be out.

The house is very quiet. He can't even hear John moving around upstairs, though he'd certainly heard him banging about earlier. That was before Sherlock had got distracted by what Lestrade was doing. He gets distracted again now, thinking about it, which is pleasurable but rather a nuisance.

There seem to be rather a lot of things on the floor that weren't there before. Mostly from the coffee-table. Hardly surprising.

It is odd to be feeling so cheerful, given how unhappy he'd been when Lestrade arrived this afternoon. He would never have thought he'd tell _anyone_ about waking up with John the other morning, let alone Lestrade of all people. But talking to Lestrade had been surprisingly helpful, even if things had taken an unexpected turn after that. Then again, the cheerfulness may be an after-effect of the sex. There is usually some simple chemical explanation for these things.

But – Sherlock is gripped by a small twinge of uncertainty – there _is_ still the matter of the row itself, which remains unresolved.

He wonders if he should have let himself be reassured like that by Lestrade: _Look, I can't stand the guy, but you do know you're in with a chance there, don't you?_

Whatever that means.

Lestrade _does_ know more about these things than Sherlock. Practically the only thing he knows more about than Sherlock, of course. On the other hand, he wouldn't tell Sherlock on what basis he was asserting his hypothesis, which is not so reassuring in retrospect. Just made some silly joke about it sticking out like a sore thumb.

John is much too sensible to mind those things Sherlock said in the heat of the moment.

But Sherlock is vaguely aware that people _do_ mind, though he's never quite understood why.

And it _would_ have been a better idea to lock the door, or at least shut it. Not that he had known things were going to turn out like that with Lestrade, who had started out just being friendly and surprisingly helpful and then -

 _- Christ, Sherlock._

Lestrade's voice in his head, hoarse and pleading. It really would be better not to cloud his mind with these recollections, but they seem to have a will of their own. Lestrade's face, changed and undone, his eyes unfocused with the approach of orgasm. The unexpected weight and feel of him in Sherlock's hand.

None of this is helping Sherlock to think about the row. Except that he knows, intellectually and a bit more than intellectually, that it wasn't good that John had walked in while they were doing that. Inconvenient for Sherlock and more particularly for Lestrade (though he'd made up for that later). But not good for John.

The other voice in his head, John Watson's voice, furious:

 _Can you not even be bothered to shut the fucking door before you start having sex on the fucking sofa? Mrs Hudson might have come in. Anyone might have come in._

It would have been a nuisance if Mrs Hudson had come in, though she's pretty broadminded ("there's all sorts these days"). And anyway Sherlock knew she was out. He'd told John that.

But it is much worse that it was John who walked in on them.

Sherlock's cheerfulness is evaporating, leaving a residue of unhappiness and anxiety he hadn't even realized was still there. He's annoyed now at Lestrade for distracting him, and annoyed at himself for being distracted. He's even a bit annoyed at Lestrade for talking to him about what had happened with John. Or rather, what hadn't.

Bloody Lestrade playing at being the amateur therapist, a thing Sherlock absolutely _does not_ need. He's always been impatient with people who want to _talk things over_ or _open up about their feelings_. Pointless nonsense.

But he feels as if there are things he would like to say to John, though he's not sure exactly what they are.

It really is very quiet in the house. He probably ought to have a shower and get dressed properly instead of lying around any longer in his dressing-gown. Then he'll look in on John and see if he wants to go out for dinner. He's really quite hungry, though he hadn't been aware of it before.

He opens the door onto the landing and sees, to his surprise, a mug of tea on the floor. Some of it has been spilt on the carpet. He checks the temperature: stone cold.

He knows Lestrade couldn't have left it there, the hurry he was in. And Mrs Hudson is still out. Which leaves John.

Tea would be nice. Would have been even nicer if John had actually given it to him while it was still hot, Sherlock thinks -

And suddenly finds himself wondering just how long ago that was.

There is, of course, one very obvious reason for not giving a mug of tea to the person that you've presumably just made it for.

A locked door between you and them.

Sherlock's mind is on the other side of that locked door, looking at John Watson with a mug of tea in his hand. John Watson, hearing what's going on between Sherlock and Lestrade in there. The image of it is so vivid that Sherlock feels slightly sick.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a suitcase in the hall that definitely wasn't there earlier.

He doesn't like the way this is shaping up at all.


	4. Chapter 4

John is sitting in the pub, an untouched pint in front of him. It was probably a mistake to meet Clara, but he'd wanted to get out of the house. It's the first time he's seen her since she and Harry split up. They don't talk about that.

He knew that might be awkward when she rang up a couple of days ago to suggest meeting. But he'd always liked Clara, who'd almost made Harry bearable for the short time they were together. And at that point he'd assumed it would be fun to tell her all about Sherlock. Was even a bit excited about it. Because Sherlock was – _is_ , still – the most amazing person John has ever met.

Not that that's any consolation right now.

"So what's your flatmate like?" Clara asks.

"A genius," says John, because this is still true and the easiest thing to say. "Extraordinary – quite extraordinary. I've never met anyone like him."

"I looked at his website," Clara says. "Can he really do what he says he can?"

"Yes," John says. This is the bit where he would have told Clara about that amazing conversation in the taxi – the "Afghanistan or Iraq?" bit, obviously, and how Sherlock had worked out he'd been on military service abroad. Not the bit about her and Harry splitting up and Harry's drinking. Or he could have told her about the amazing way Sherlock had worked out in seconds all those things about the dead woman in pink.

But instead he sits and looks at his untouched drink, trying not to think about this afternoon.

Clara's phone goes off; she looks at it and pulls a face.

"Sorry," she says, "I'd better take this."

"It's fine," he says. "It's OK."

He is sitting in the pub with Clara, but his mind is back in 221b Baker Street.

Coming downstairs to make a cup of tea, making one for Sherlock as well, thinking maybe they can try to talk about what happened earlier. Though he should have known that wasn't going to work. For God's sake, you're dealing with a man who clearly has _no_ understanding of human emotions.

That thing about Rachel, for example.

The dead woman's daughter. Stillborn daughter, died 14 years ago. The woman had been trying to scratch her name on the floor in her last moments.

Sherlock's complete incomprehension: _But that was_ _ **ages**_ _ago, why would she still be upset?_

The silence in the room, so loud that even Sherlock knew he'd got something wrong.

The odd way he turned to John, as if John could help him.

- _Not good?_

 _-Bit not good, yeah._

You'd have to be pretty stupid to expect someone like that to care about anyone else's feelings. Or notice they existed, even. Or have any themselves.

You'd have to be pretty stupid to let yourself _care_ about someone like that.

Clara's conversation is still going on; it's work, of course. Something gone wrong with a court case she's preparing for, some idiot has lost a vital piece of evidence. Sort of thing he'd have told Sherlock about afterwards, see if he had an idea about it. If he'd been going home – _back to the flat_ , he corrects himself – after this. He's still not sure about that.

He can't get the sounds out of his head.

They were pretty unmistakable, so it's not surprising.

Standing there on the landing like a complete fucking idiot and _loser_ , mug of tea for Sherlock in one hand, other hand on the door about to open it -

and then the noises start on the other side of the door.

Lestrade groaning, Sherlock laughing, the laugh being smothered, a lot of bumping around and things being knocked onto the floor, and -

A sort of _Oh_ , between pleasure and surprise. Not Lestrade's voice.

Scalding heat of the tea slopping from the mug over his fingers and onto the carpet.

Putting the mug down outside the door, carefully as if it might break. Going upstairs for his half-packed suitcase, never mind finishing the packing, enough there for overnight anyway, leave it in the hall and come back for the rest of his stuff later.

Walking past his stick in the hall, the one he doesn't need any more because Sherlock was right and his therapist was right and it _was_ psychosomatic. Even if running around London chasing a taxi is a pretty weird sort of cure.

- _That – is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done._

Leaning against the wall in 221b with Sherlock, out of breath and laughing, Sherlock saying _And you invaded Afghanistan_. Giggling helplessly. There's been – there was – a lot of that. Laughing with Sherlock. Best not to think about that.

So he doesn't need the stick any more. He can walk out of 221b Baker Street just like that. Out of Sherlock's life, too, which is obviously what Sherlock must want, given that he's with Lestrade.

Said he didn't have a boyfriend, why would he have said that if it wasn't true? Maybe it _wasn't_ , then. Maybe it's only just happened. Maybe if he'd done something different, said something that morning when he woke up with Sherlock -

He can't possibly want to be involved with Sherlock. Not like that. You'd have to be mad to want that.

 

Clara is making apologetic faces. He gestures to her empty glass, see if she wants another. She mouths "Thank you."

He goes to the bar to get it. His phone beeps.

The message says

 

Come at once

221b Baker Street

Urgent

SH

 

He deletes it.

The phone beeps again, seconds later. Same message.

He deletes that too.

The third message, astonishingly, says

 

Sorry about earlier

SH

 

John doesn't think of "Sorry" as being in Sherlock's vocabulary.

He deletes the message.

He's still angry but there's something else, a sadness that makes his throat tight again.

Phone beeps.

Another message.

Just one word and the initials this time.

Didn't think that was in his vocabulary either.

 

Please

SH

 

John hits Reply. Texts and sends:

 

Fuck off

JW

 

It ought to make him feel better, but somehow it doesn't.

He switches his phone off and takes Clara her drink.

She's still on the phone, but says to the person at the other end, "Hold on a minute. I'm so sorry, John. This is just going to go on for hours, and we haven't had a chance to talk at all."

"It's OK," John says. "It's fine."

He says that a lot. Even when it isn't.

"I think I might go back to the flat," he says. "Feeling a bit under the weather. Can we do this another time?"

Clara looks relieved; she can get on with her work call without feeling guilty. "OK," she says. "Stay in touch, yes?"

"Yes," John says, meaning _No._

He gets his coat and goes out into the night air. Thinks he might walk around for a bit. Not going back there just yet. Maybe later.


	5. Chapter 5

He knows he hasn't been asleep at all. People say that sort of thing all the time and often it's nonsense, like most of the things people say. But he has been lying here in the dark, watching the numbers on the alarm change minute by minute, for hours now. It's 4 a.m., the dead time, the worst time. He keeps listening, straining for any sound that might indicate John's return.

It's not like him to be doing this. But then so much of what he's been doing for the last week is not like him.

He could get up, look up more cases, maybe do something about that new experiment he was planning.

He keeps looking at the text that just says

**Fuck off**

**JW**

It doesn't look any better than it looked the first time.

He doesn't think he will ever understand all the fuss about sex. It's really not that important. Even Lestrade is actually, as far as Sherlock can tell from his admittedly limited experience, quite good at it. But really -

No, it's not what he thought. Just someone walking past, not stopping. Not John. At least he hopes John would have stopped.

All this fuss about sex, and indeed love, is so illogical. It just gets in the way of everything.

Why can't he have sex with Lestrade and still be friends with John? It's ridiculous. Of course he has to apologise properly about that thing with the door. Both those things with the door. And the things he said. But really that ought to be it.

Why do people expect you to make such a song and dance about their emotions?

It's going to be a real nuisance if he has to look for another flatmate. Can't keep going through them at the rate of one a week.

He could get undressed and get into bed, rather than just lying on it. It's rather cold. But he doesn't feel like it. It seems somehow important not still to be in the same clothes as this afternoon when John comes back.

If John comes back. Though presumably he'll at least have to come back for his suitcase. It would be a pity not to have _some_ chance to talk, at least to part on friendlier terms. If that's what's going to happen.

It's not what he wants to happen.

So what _does_ he want?

He thinks about what he said to Lestrade, about waking up in bed with John.

 _I wanted him to be there. I liked it._ Said it as if he was ashamed of it.

Thinks, too, about the other things he said. That he doesn't _do_ this. Doesn't _do_ people. Doesn't _do_ intimacy. Doesn't _do_ bed-sharing.

Sex, yes, though not often, these last years. Could be OK with someone like Lestrade, who is good at it and fun to play games with and might not expect too much. But that's different.

Letting someone in that close. He would have said that could never happen. Still doesn't know if it can. Or if he wants it to. But he wishes he was back there again, that morning after, waking up in bed with John Watson, and that it could just go on being like that, the warmth and the quiet of it.

Or if not that, then at least just to have him around. Doing the things they've been doing together. Like friends. Another thing Sherlock would have said he didn't really do.

A bit of that conversation in Angelo's comes back to him. John's voice saying _People don't have arch-enemies. Not in real life_ and his own voice saying _Don't they? Sounds a bit dull. What do real people have then? In their_ _ **real**_ _lives?_ And John's reply: _Friends_.

Went on to say other things, too, including all that rather embarrassing stuff about whether Sherlock had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and Sherlock had thought he was asking -

But he wasn't.

Lestrade doesn't know what he's talking about. _You're in with a chance there_. Meaningless phrase. A chance of what?

It's not looking like much of anything at the moment.

The footsteps are coming back down the street. At least, he's pretty sure they are the same ones. Stopping outside the house. Key in the door.

It's ridiculous to be holding his breath like this. Footsteps coming up the stairs, stopping outside his door. Sherlock gets up quickly off the bed, goes to the door, opens it.

John looks tired, and his coat is damp; it's been raining, though not hard. Looks as if he's been walking for hours, which he must have been.

"I didn't think you were coming back." Didn't know that was what he was going to say until he'd said it.

"I didn't think I was either," John says. He sounds numb, colourless; sounds the way he looked when he came into the room in Bart's that day, the first time Sherlock saw him. Still holding himself tense, like a soldier. But also as if he's bracing himself against something, or bracing himself to do something, Sherlock isn't sure what.

"I'm not very good at this sort of thing," Sherlock says. One of his rare understatements, he recognizes wryly.

He tries again to find something to say that will stop this man from leaving. Because he really doesn't want him to leave.

"I'm sorry," he says. "About this afternoon, all of it. Not good."

"No," John says. "Not good."

"I don't want you to move out," Sherlock says.

He feels he should say something else but he's scared of saying the wrong thing. Something else that's never happened to him before.

"The thing with Lestrade - " he begins.

"None of my business," John says.

Which isn't exactly what Sherlock was looking for.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says again. He could just stand here all night saying that, but he has a sinking feeling it won't make any difference.

"It's nothing to _me_ who you have sex with," John says. Which strikes Sherlock as slightly different from _None of my business_ and almost like something a jealous person might say. For a moment he wonders if Lestrade might have been right after all.

"It's only sex," Sherlock says helplessly. "I've never understood why people think it's that important."

"No," says John. "I don't suppose you have."

Sherlock isn't sure whether this is a factual statement or a not very disguised insult.

"I should have shut the door the first time," Sherlock says. " _Locked_ the door the first time."

"Yes," John says. "You should."

Sherlock wonders if John is just going to carry on agreeing with everything he says. It's all a bit uncomfortable.

"Shouldn't you take that coat off?" Sherlock asks.

John stares at him. Sherlock's actually quite surprised at it himself, because he hadn't known he was going to say that either. John takes the coat off but doesn't put it down. Stands there holding it.

Sherlock looks at John, who looks absolutely exhausted: "Would you like some tea?"

John winces.

"I"m not doing very well with this, am I?" Sherlock says.

John shakes his head. Doesn't even say anything.

"I don't really know how to be with anyone," Sherlock says.

John's still standing there holding the coat. He looks puzzled, which is an improvement on looking just exhausted and tense.

"What do you mean, _be with_?" he asks.

"I don't _do_ people," Sherlock says, falling back on the only form of words he's come up with so far that makes sense to him.

"You bloody well did Lestrade," John says, accusingly.

Sherlock doesn't know why that makes him laugh, or whether laughing is going to make things worse. But apparently it doesn't, because now John is laughing too, for no good reason, and the relief of it is almost more than Sherlock can cope with.

"Are you going to stand there holding that coat all night?" Sherlock says, suddenly exasperated. He takes the coat away from John and hangs it on the back of the bedroom door. He's gone past trying to work out why he does anything any more.

"It's nearly morning, or haven't you noticed?" John says. So it is.

"Do you want to come and lie down?" Sherlock says.

Not sure which of them is more surprised by that.

"Are you - " John begins. He stops. Tries again. "Is this - "

"I don't know," Sherlock says. "But it's late, and we're both exhausted, and you're all wet and it really is quite cold in here."

John still looks confused, which is hardly surprising.

Sherlock finally finds the thing that he wants to say, something he would never have imagined saying, but which is at least a factual statement:

"I like waking up with you."

John looks as if a lot of different things are going through his mind. Sherlock knows he isn't good at reading facial expressions or emotions, but he thinks he can identify, in the following order, _sad_ , _thoughtful_ , and _if you have sex with Lestrade on the sofa again I'll wring your neck._

He's not sure what his own expression looks like to John, but he's feeling hopeful, so perhaps it's that.

"All right, then," John says.

They lie down together, clothes on at first under the covers because it's so cold. It's a very strange thing for Sherlock to find himself doing, but it feels good just the same. Eventually it's warm enough in the bed for some of the clothes to come off, and they do.

"Don't start thinking I'm going to do this every night," John says.

"No, I won't," Sherlock says. And he doesn't. This is enough for now. Lying here close, hearing John's breathing, breathing him in. John's arm lying across him. Face to face this time, which is different from last time, but makes some things easier. Kissing, for example, which seems like quite a good idea right now. Tentative, but nice. Stroking John's back, which also seems a fine and appropriate thing to do. Though there could be more.

He's not sure whether the look on John's face as Sherlock presses hopefully against his thigh means _I want you now_ or _You really are impossible_.It might be both. With luck, there will be time to learn these things.

It's enough for now to know that this morning he's waking up with John Watson. This morning, or possibly this afternoon. Because it really has been one hell of a long day, and they're not asleep yet.

THE END


End file.
